Mrs. Therwald happened a week later to say casually to her husband:
“That Towns nigger that they sent to jail—don’t you think he’d be safer outside than in? He seemed a decent sort of chap on the trip. I was thinking it might be a shrewd gesture for the Klan to help free him.”
Her husband looked at her hard and said nothing. But he did some thinking. That very day the white Democrats of Chicago had complained to the Klan that their small but formerly growing Negro vote was disappearing because of the Klan meeting and the Towns incident. Illinois with its growing Negro vote would be no longer a doubtful state politically unless something was done. How would it do to free Towns?
III
Miss Sara Andrews sat in the anteroom of the office of the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan in Washington. Several persons looked at her curiously.
“I believe she’s a nigger,” said a stenographer.
“Italian or Spanish, I would say,” replied the chief clerk and frowned, for Sara had decided to wait. She said that she must really see Mr. Green personally and privately. After an hour’s wait, she saw him. Mr. Green turned toward her a little impatiently, for she was interrupting a full day.
“What can I do for you?” and he glanced at her card and started to say, “Miss Andrews.” Then he looked at her slightly olive skin and the suggestion of a curve in her hair and compromised on “Madam.”
Miss Andrews began calmly with lowered eyes. She had on a new midnight-blue tailor-made frock with close-fitting felt hat to match, gay-cuffed black kid gloves, gunmetal stockings, and smart black patent leather pumps. On the whole she was pleased with her appearance.
“I am trying to get a pardon for Matthew Towns, and I want your help.”
“Who is Matthew Towns?”
The question again did not carry the conviction that Mr. Green did not really remember. But Sara was discreet and carefully rehearsed the case.
“Oh, yes, I remember—well, he got what he deserved, didn’t he?”
“No, he saved the train and got what somebody else deserved.”
“Why didn’t he reveal the real culprits?”
“That is the point. He may be shielding some persons who we might all agree should be shielded. He may be shielding the dead. He may be shielding criminals now free to work and conspire. But in all probability, he does not know who planned the deed. He was a blind tool. In any case he should go free. For surely, Mr. Green, no one is foolish enough to believe this was the plan of a mere porter.”
“Have you any new evidence?”
“Not exactly court evidence,” said Sara, “and yet I betray no confidence when I say that we have information and it is much in favor of Towns.”
“And what do you want of me?”
“I have come to ask you to sign a request for Matthew Towns’ pardon. You see, if you do, it will clear up the whole matter.” And she looked Mr. Green full in the face. Her eyes were a bit hard, but her voice was almost caressing.
“I am sure,” she said, “that the colored people of America are needlessly alarmed over the Klan, and that you are really their friends in the long run. Nothing would prove this more clearly than a fine, generous action on your part like this.”
“But do you think it possible that Towns knows—nothing more of the real perpetrators of the plot?”
“If he did, why didn’t he talk? Why doesn’t he talk now? Reporters would rush to print his story. Indeed, the longer he stays in jail, the more he may try to remember. No, Mr. Green, I am sure that Towns either knows nothing more or will never tell it in jail or out.”
Mr. Green signed the petition.
A month later, in Chicago, Sammy was close closeted with his congressman.
“This Towns matter: Pullman people are willing; railroads don’t object. Even the Klan is asking for it, and the Republicans better move before the Democrats get credit.”
Two weeks later the congressman saw the chairman of the National Republican Committee. The matter got to the Governor a week after that. In April it was very quietly announced that because of certain new evidence and other considerations, and at the request of the Ku Klux Klan, Matthew Towns had been pardoned. The Honorable Sammy Scott and his secretary went to Joliet and took the pardon to the prisoner.
IV
The great Jewish synagogue in Chicago, which the African Methodist Church had bought for half a million dollars in mortgages, was packed to its doors, May first, and an almost riotous crowd outside was demanding admittance. The Honorable Sammy Scott promised them an overflow meeting. Within, all the dignitaries of black Chicago were present. And, in addition, the mayor, the congressman from the black belt, and an unusual outpouring of reporters, represented the great whitecity. On the platform in the center in a high-backed, heavily-upholstered church chair sat the presiding officer, the Right Reverend John Carnes, Presiding Bishop of the District—an inspiring figure, too fat, but black and dignified. At his left sat the mayor, two colored members of the legislature, and several clergymen. At his right sat two aldermen and a congressman, and a tall, thin young man with drawn face andhaunted eyes.
Matthew Towns made a figure almost pitiful. He sat drooping forward, half filling the wide chair, and staring blankly at the great audience. At his left was the chairman, and at his right sat the fat old congressman in careless dress, with his shifty eyes; down below the great audience milled and stirred, whispered and quivered.
It was an impressive sight. Every conceivable color of skin glowed
